


Dee And Dennis End Up Squarely In Purgatory

by orphan_account



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He meets her in a bar, when he's half drunk, fucking half-dead.
Relationships: Dee Reynolds/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	1. Dee Meets A Psychopath

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place where season 2 would otherwise be, i.e in 2006. Hence the Blackberries. I have, however, screwed a bit with the timeline in certain places. 
> 
> oh my god what have i done i think i made sunny into a romcom. a fucked-up romcom, but still. god help.

9:46 PM

On a Saturday

Philadelphia, PA

* * *

The minute Dee saw the guy she knew he was here for a bender. Not just a regular bender; the type of bender that people got into when they’d divorced their wife, lost their job, and discovered they were lactose intolerant in the same day. He hits the alcohol first thing, snubbing Debby when she asks if he wants a burger. 

“You’re being stupid,” Is the first thing Dee says to him, because her boss isn’t around and in an hour this guy’d be too shitfaced to care. “The burger’s better value. They water down the beer.” 

He looked up - the first time she’d seen him glance up from his beer. He had decent hair, bags under his eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a weirdly emaciated look to him. Wearing foundation (why were all the good-looking ones gay?), and glaring at her.

“Then get me something worth drowning my sorrows for.” 

Dee rolls her eyes, but reaches over for another bottle - the two percent crap she reserves specifically for people she hates. 

“What’s your damage, asshole?” 

He looks up from his beer, raises an eyebrow. “My friends just burnt down my bar.” Then he sighs. “Also, pass me the tequila, _you’re_ watering down the beer.” 

Dee glares, and pushes him another two percenter. 

*

The guy must be more charming than he let on, because Debby puts his tequila shots on the house. 

“Do you really have to do that? Jack’s gonna blame me,” Dee says, because her boss has a vendetta against her, for reasons unexplained (it may have something to do with her boss being from Pittsburgh and Dee having a violent hatred of the Steelers, but, hey, anyone’s guess). 

Debby, who is the type of person who believes the best in everyone, shakes her head. “Don’t worry, I put down the money for it.” 

Dee tries to hate Debby. She really should; Debby gets more tips, has a nicer apartment, better boyfriends, and is consistently considered more attractive. But Dee can’t bring herself to resent her for it. Debby is problematic because she’s deeply likable, a quality which Dee has fought (and failed) to possess for her whole life. 

“Don’t worry,” Debby says, grinning. “I’ll leave him to you.” She winks. 

That’s another thing about Debby. She’s a total busybody, and always trying to set Dee up. Even if the guy in question is Mr. Mediocre-Jackass, who Dee makes Debby serve anyway. 

Debby’s shift ends at twelve, but she leaves at half-past that, because Dee can’t stand the idea of spending another Saturday night here alone. She’d wrangled Jack into getting every other Friday off, but only on the condition that she work every Saturday, possibly for the rest of her life. 

“Debbyyyyy-” Dee’s saying, gripping the cuff of her coat as she shrugs it on. “Don’t leave me here.” 

“Dee, some of us need to _sleep._ ”

“We should do all our shifts together. You and me, we could, like, run a bar together, for lesbians, and we’d be all hot and shit, and guys would come over to watch us make out, and then we could pick out the hottest ones-”

Debby sighs, huffing out a little laugh. “Dee, I think Mr. Mediocre-Jackass is gonna kill you if you don’t get over there right now. Tell me about your lesbian pub theory tomorrow, okay?” she says, sounding exasperated but fond. (That’s another thing Dee likes about Debby. Dee can count on one hand the number of people in her life who’ve been _fond_ of her, and her thumb and pointer are her parents.) 

Debby waves goodbye, leaving Dee stuck with Mr. Mediocre-Jackass. Dee sighs, and gets back to work. 

*

M-J (as she’s taken to calling him) is still at it two hours later. Dee had been serving him harder and harder liquor in an attempt to either get him home (transported either by a friend or in an ambulance, same difference), but he’d stayed resolutely stuck in his chair, eyes glued to his cup like it might just come to life and give him a blowjob if he stared hard enough. 

The bar’s mostly empty by now, their usual college kids and lonely-singles-looking-to-bang well on the way back to their own (or at least someone’s) home. A few weird old guys are left, the crowd reserved almost exclusively for Dee (Debby’s afraid she’ll get raped, and Jack is _not_ a people person). Dee washes glasses halfheartedly, trying to list off all the reasons why she needs this job. 

Here’s the thing; right now, Deandra Jaskulski is in a bit of a slump. But give her five years, and she’ll have an acting career, a fancy-ass house with a fantastic garden, and a killer boyfriend. 

The pay here is straight minimum wage, but at least it’s not tips-only, and Jack lets them keep the change. Having failed out of college with not a single teacher who liked her and a police record of arson, it’s more than Dee could’ve asked for. That pay means more money to save up so she can go to acting school, which means an increase in chances in getting an audition for a movie, which means a chance to finally make it big and prove everyone, _absolutely fucking everyone,_ wrong.

Dee’s gonna show them all, and she’s gonna make millions while she’s at it. 

If only she could get a response to her auditions. 

She clenches her fingers around her glass, and looks back up at the clock. Still at least half an hour until she can turn it in.

*

It’s three o’clock and M-J still hasn’t budged. He’s slumped further into his chair, his fingers clenched white around his shot glass, but he hasn’t stopped drinking the entire night. At first, Dee figured he was either an alcoholic or having the worst day of his life, but now she’s kind of thinking it’s both. 

Either way, it’s closing time, and he needs to get the fuck out. 

“Jackass,” She says, hitting him on the shoulder. His eyelashes flutter, and he looks at her, confused. “Closing time. You need to leave.” 

“Fucking Mac and Charlie,” he says. 

Dee looks at him quizzically. “What?”

“Those idiots! They - wanted to - prove some _shit_ about lightning - and then they fried the cat, but it wasn’t deep-fried, so they said we needed alcohol, and, and, - so we dunked the cat in a vat of alcohol, and Charlie lit - blue angels n’ shit- and then-” He stood up now, almost falling over before gripping her arm - “Motherfuckers set my motherfucking bar on fire! What am I gonna do _now,_ Mac? Charlie? _Frank!_ That was my fucking bar!”

Dee doesn’t ask him if he’s okay. Dee and Not Okay have a long history, and this is looking pretty reminiscent. 

M-J looks at her like she’s lost her mind. “I just lost my _fucking_ bar! I am a _god,_ Waitress! I des-, desert- whatchamacallit - _deserve_ better than that!”

Dee supposes she should have some sympathy, but it’s three in the morning and all she really wants to do is go home.

“Do you have, like, a friend I could call, other than the ones who burnt down your bar?” She considers fishing around for his phone, but from the way he’s gesturing she doesn’t think that’d end well. 

M-J looks at her like she’s nuts. “Friends...other than Mac and Charlie?” And okay, fair enough, Dee is also a member of the only-two-friends club. 

“Fucking hell,” She swears. She could dump this guy on the curb, but that is a bit of a dick move. Dee tries to avoid those - according to Debby, that’s part of being likable.

“You’re ugly,” M-J tells her, out of absolutely nowhere. Dee whips around to glare at him. 

“Excuse me?” Sure, she’s not the finest looking bitch in the pageant, but she’s not in high school anymore, she’s cleaned up nicely. 

“Not like - ugly- _ugly._ But like, ugly- _personality._ Watering down the beer and shit. I’m a _god,_ Waitress.” 

“My name is _Dee,_ ” Dee says, wondering if that means that maybe she should stop calling him M-J. Ah, whatever. 

“‘Knew a Dee once,” M-J mumbles, bunching up his fists. “‘Stole my fuckin’ teddy bear.” he looks up at her with a hard glint in her eyes, a straight line to his mouth. For the first time that evening, Dee sees something other than a loser drunk with idiot friends. The look in this guy’s eyes tells her he’s been through enough that having it out over a teddy bear at three in the morning while completely shitfaced is spare change to him. 

Dee’s been looking for a fight ever since she was seven and her parents told her _you’re adopted,_ ever since she walked into her first day of high school with a thousand-dollar aluminum brace, ever since her college roommate heard her last name and asked ‘that some kinda poor-ass communist thing?’. She _knows_ that looks, that insane determination mixed with bloodlust and a wide, gaping feeling that you've lost your way. 

Wondering - no, wait, _knowing_ \- that she’s making a really stupid mistake, she hooks an arm around the guy’s shoulder and pulls him in the direction of her apartment. 

“What’s your name, asshole?” She says, and he looks at her like he’s affronted that she doesn’t know. 

“Dennis,” he says. “Dennis Reynolds.” 

“Alright, Dennis Reynolds,” She says to not-M-J, “Try not to puke on my carpet.” 

*

Dee’s current apartment is the size of a relatively clean trash bin, but it’s close to her work and costs less than six-hundred a month and none of the neighbors care that she occasionally gets up on a stool on the balcony and starts yelling soliloquies, so she deals. 

It has four tiny rooms, a mini-fridge, a two-seater couch and a one-person table near the window. M-J - wait, no _Dennis -_ has yet to puke on the carpet, so that’s a plus. 

“You must be a champion alcoholic,” She says, although she’s not really one to talk - having Polish parents will do that to you. A quarter of her pantry is devoted solely to Żywiec. 

“Champion at _everything,_ ” Dennis mumbles into his sleeve. Dee pushes him down onto the couch, rolling her eyes and grabbing a glass of water and a couple ibuprofen. 

“I’m sure you are,” Dee says. 

“No, really, Deandra. I’m gonna - just you wait, gonna be a veterinarian, fix cats up ‘n shit- people are gonna _like_ it, like me - I’m great already, but, then they’ll - then they’ll notice it.” His eyes flutter shut, a hint of a smile on his face. 

Dee has to tamp down the urge to smile. 

“You’ll get there,” She says, more to herself than him. “Just keep pushing.” He’s snoring now, already conked out, and Dee laughs a bit. A few buttons of his shirt cuff are undone, and she instinctively reaches to button them back up. She grabs his wrist- he really _is_ thin, god, but there’s no way he’s starving if he can afford clothes like this- and turns his hand over to get a better grip on his shirt. 

She bites her lips when she sees the red slash marks there. 

She remembers high school like it was yesterday. Try being fourteen, taller than most of the boys in your class, stuck to an aluminum pole and with a foreign last name. Her only friend had been the guy she’d bummed cigarettes off, and he’d ditched her to go to prom with a fat chick.

There’d been days where she’d come home and stared at the kitchen knives, holding it in her hand, testing the blades against her skin. Walking the line. 

It wasn’t until junior year that she finally gave in, pulled out the one sharp knife in their rack and slid it over her wrists, let the pain numb her. Blood got _everywhere,_ left pools on the floor until Dee felt too weak to stand. Her knees buckled, just leaving her there, crying in her own blood. _No one fucking loves me, no one even_ likes _me,_ a mantra on repeat in her head. 

It must’ve been midnight when her mom came home from working overtime at her job, and saw Dee there, sitting blankly in a pool of blood and tears with a knife in her hand and fresh cuts on her wrists. Her mom, dead on her feet from exhaustion and the cleanliest woman Dee has ever known, hadn’t hesitated for a second to rush to Dee and drop to her knees, clutching her in a bone-breaking hug. _Moja dziewczynka, mój mały skarbi,_ she’d said, whispered it into her ear and clutched her close until the crying slowed down, until her mom was put together enough to wrap Dee’s arms in bandages. She didn't say anything, just cooked Dee’s favorite perogies and crushed her in another hug. When Dee’s dad came home, he silently passed her a beer, and put on the Eagles, and they watched the game until they both fell asleep. 

The next time she’d been standing in the kitchen, holding that knife, she’d thought twice.

 _Never again,_ she’d told herself. _Because there_ are _people who love you._

She wonders if there was ever anyone there for Dennis. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Moja dziewczynka_ \- My baby girl [Polish]  
>  _Mój mały skarbi_ \- My little sweetheart [Polish]  
> 


	2. Dennis Has PTSD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dee has ugly wallpaper, Dennis has a crisis, Frank cuts the funding, and Mac and Charlie did ecstasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter totally got away from me lol i swear it was meant to be like 1000 words long.

11:36 AM

On a Sunday 

Philadelphia, PA

* * *

Dennis wakes up to what has got to be the world's ugliest wallpaper. 

There’s a crick in his neck, a dryness in his throat; he feels like  _ shit,  _ goddamnit, he needs a-

Bucket. Huh. He grabs it, and throws up until he doesn’t feel like committing arson. What even  _ happened  _ last night? It’s not his apartment, but he’s lying next to the  _ couch,  _ which means he probably didn’t have sex. Maybe Charlie got a new apartment? Impossible, it’d be way dirtier. And even  _ Mac  _ has better taste than that fucking wallpaper. 

Conclusion; he’s in a girl’s house, someone who he’s known for a night and  _ not  _ managed to sleep with. Maybe a kindly old lady? Old ladies like flowery wallpaper, right? The last old lady Dennis met tried to hit him over the head with a handbag, so it’s not like there’s a precedent. 

There’s water and three ibuprofen on the table, all of which Dennis downs in one shot. He looks over the room. 

There’s a balcony to his left, a kitchen to his right, a bathroom with a slanted door in front of him. The room’s mostly bare, with the occasional trinket; probably a single woman. Which further adds to the mystery of why he’s sleeping on the  _ couch.  _ What type of woman would leave a catch like him on the  _ couch?  _ Maybe she’s a widow or something and got struck with guilt after realizing Dennis was more handsome than her late husband. 

His head hurts like a  _ bitch,  _ and he can’t even mitigate it by telling himself he got laid last night. He wraps an arm around his legs and rests his forehead on his knees. 

That’s when he remembers  _ why  _ he started drinking. 

“Oh,  _ god. _ ” 

“Nope, just me,” Someone says, popping the  _ p.  _ Dennis immediately hates her. 

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” he keeps his eyes on the floor, not wanting to ruin his eyesight by looking up to whatever inevitably ugly hag is talking to him. 

“It’s my apartment. Feel free to fuck off if you like,” The voice says. “But I  _ did  _ bring you home and give you Advil and water, so a  _ thank you _ might also be in order. Coffee?”

Dennis forces himself to look up. 

Standing across the room from him is a girl who’s almost as tall as he is, blonde and weirdly scarecrow-like, kind of nice eyes. She doesn’t seem mad, but she really isn’t being as appreciative as she should be to have, y’know,  _ Dennis Reynolds  _ in her apartment.

“Who  _ are  _ you?” The girl rolls her eyes. 

“Deandra, but only to people I hate. Call me Dee.” 

“Alright, Deandra.” 

“You stupid-” Deandra bites her lip, and then switches strategies. “You’re not getting coffee if you keep calling me that.” 

“...Dee.” 

She smirks, and disappears into the kitchen. 

Dee. Huh. Deandra. Dennis knew that name. 

Whatever. Bigger fish to fry. 

He fumbled around for his Blackberry, pushing the front up to check his messages. He’s got four voicemails, two which he knows are exes asking why he hasn’t called them back, and another which is a very persistent librarian berating him for not returning his seventy-three days overdue library book. The fourth one was left last night by Charlie. 

“Yo, Dennis! Mac, it’s Dennis!” “Dennis!” “Sorry we burnt down the bar dude, we needed the money, so we like, planned on hitting it with - whatchacallit - Yiddish lightning? It’s called Yiddish lightning, right Mac?” “Nah, I think it’s Jewish lightning. Yiddish is like, a type of corn.” “-Anyways, so tomorrow we’re gonna go collect the insurance money, and that way the communist mafia guys won’t kill us! Sound good? Good! You’re a great friend, Dennis!” “Yeah, thanks Dennis! Sorry about the whole cat thing, we wanted to distract you so you wouldn’t care about the gas ring we’d set up around the bar.” 

The voicemail ends with something that sounds disturbingly like a deep-fried cat hitting a table.

“Insurance money! They burnt down the fucking bar to collect  _ insurance money?  _ We don’t even own the place! Last time I paid insurance was 1999!” Dennis drags a hand down his face, hit with a sudden desire to be blissfully unconscious, or maybe dead. He wonders if this hag has a razor. 

“Are you talking to anyone in particular?” The hag- oops, Dee - says, peeking her head out of the kitchen. She takes in his expression, then nods, walking out with two cups. She sits down on the couch and slides a horrifyingly ugly saucer to the corner of the table where Dennis is curled up. 

“Shut up, bitch.” 

“You shut up, fuckhead.” She said, sounding almost hurt. “Just ‘cause your friends are dicks to you doesn't mean you have to be an ass to me. You know that, right? Or are you just retarded?”

Dennis looks at her, making a grab for the coffee. “My friends are a million times better than you’ll ever be, bitch.” 

“Say what you will about me, I haven’t burnt down your bar yet, asshole,” She says, rolling her eyes. 

He glares at her. “How did you know that happened?”

She looks at him like  _ he’s _ the idiot. “You told me.”

“Why would I tell  _ you _ ?”

“You were drunk? Did you forget?” 

“God fucking damnit,” Dennis says, shaking his head and checking his texts. 

_ Frank: Sorry Dennis but that bar’s a shithole, not paying for it. And I changed the passwords on my bank accounts after the whole Keanu Reeves thing.  _

No bar, no insurance, his friends have fucked off to God-knows-where, and Frank isn’t even gonna pay the damage. 

Dennis sips his coffee and considers. 

“Well, what the fuck do I do now, God?” 

Dee raises an eyebrow. “God?” 

Dennis shrugs. “Religious friend. That shit rubs off like cat fur.” 

Dee doesn’t sympathize. Bitch. 

“So...are you gonna, like, try being a veterinarian now?”

Okay, this was getting disconcerting. “Did I  _ really  _ spill my entire life story to you while I was drunk? Or did you actively drug me to get the plot for a movie?”

“You’re life’s not  _ that  _ interesting-” And just as Dennis was about to inform her that  _ no, actually,  _ you could  _ absolutely  _ make a TV show out of the shit that went down in his life on a daily basis, Dee’s phone rang. 

“Hello?” She said, and her eyes went comically wide at the response. She shoved a finger in front of Dennis’ lips when he opened his mouth to talk, not even sparing him a glance.

“Today? Really? Oh my- yeah, of course, that’s fine, don’t worry the short notice is - short notice is great - good for improv, you know. What time? Oh, yeah, one o’clock’s no problem.” 

She pulled away from her phone and just  _ stared  _ at it.

“...You finally got pregnant?” Dennis hazards.

“No, I-” She glanced towards the kitchen. “Holy  _ shit  _ it’s twelve o’clock! Fuck!” She screamed, and dashed to the bathroom. 

Dennis shrugged, and sipped his coffee, which wasn’t actually half-bad. After about five minutes of sitting around bored, he decided to look around some more. He was bored, and it wasn’t like he was all that eager to face his life right now. 

After twenty minutes of picking through Dee's things, he was again bored. The most interesting stuff he'd found was some books in a foreign language (looked kind of like Romanian), a series of truly horrific theatre props, and some hilariously awkward high school photos (Dee'd had this god-awful aluminum brace, for some reason- scoliosis?).

When he wandered back into the living room he had two new calls, from Mac and Charlie, both of which he elected to ignore. Dee was frantically tearing through her coat hanger, pulling and pushing articles aside at random. 

“That one won’t make you look horrifyingly ugly,” He said, pointing to a discarded navy blue dress. “It’s slender enough to make your height less horrifying, and it’ll bring out your eyes.”

Dee paused, and turned around, holding it up to the light. “I. Uh. Thanks, I guess. Wouldn’t have thought of that.” Dennis shrugged. He’d gone through way too many years of being better dressed than his dates. 

“What are you doing, anyway?” he says, leaning against the doorframe. 

“I- uh - acting. Auditioned a week or two ago. Wanna be - actress” She seems to have forgotten that Dennis is there, stripping off her shirt and tugging the dress on. “Zip me up?” She turns around. Dennis figures,  _ what the hell,  _ pushes her hair out of the way, and pulls up the zipper.

She grabs her purse, slips on a pair of decent enough heels (black with small silver buckles), and sets out the door. 

“What’s the play?” Dennis says, catching up. He’d had a lot of experience with theatre- mostly mocking the one guy who tried out for  _ Hamlet  _ in their high school play. 

“The Cherry Orchard,” Dee says, buttoning up her coat. “I’m going for one of the minor roles - the governess or the housemaid. It’s a small production, so if I’m lucky they might pick me over more well-established local actors.” 

“Is it one of those things where you sing all the time?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You mean a musical? No.” 

“So you can’t sing,” he smirked a bit, remembering the time that he, Mac, and Charlie had fooled these chicks into believing they were an up-and-coming rock band. They’d done pretty well. Until Mac threw up on one of the girls, at least. 

She shrugs, looking down and shoving her hands into her pockets, although she till walks fast, doesn’t wilt entirely.

“Sort of. Didn’t have the money for lessons, but I  _ can  _ hold a tune.” She glares, as if daring him to contest, which is ridiculous, because Dennis can’t prove her wrong until she’s actually  _ sung.  _ Whatever, he’ll do it later. 

She takes a left onto a street Dennis has never seen before, pulling open the glass door to the reception. She double-checks the address before stepping in. 

“Hey John,” She says to the guy behind the counter, who points them to the hall. Dennis wonders how many friends Dee has. Probably not a lot. She seems like a loser. 

Dee pauses outside the door to what Dennis assumes is the stage. The tips of her shoes knock against the door, and she presses her forehead to the wood, shutting her eyes and breathing deeply. 

“Okay, you can do this.  _ You can do this _ . Just- remember. Charlotta - funny, but sad. It’s a comedy, but you’re dying inside. You’re so, so,  _ fucking  _ alone.” 

Dennis eyed her. He felt that he should say something, but whatever it was got stuck in his throat. 

Dee pushed off the door and glanced at him. “You’re still here?” 

He shrugged. “I guess.” 

She gave a watery smile. “Alright then.” She pushed the door open.

The theatre was dark and mostly empty anyway, so Dennis sat in one of the red velvet seats at the back, flicking aside a kernel of popcorn and scuffing his shoe on an old soda stain. The ceiling was low and the stage was small, but based on the way Dee walked up there it might as well have been Broadway. She looked... like there was nowhere she’d rather be.

Was that how Dennis has looked at the pub? He’d had a lot of things there - his friends, his father*, an endless supply of beer, a home base - but had it been what he wanted? 

Someone was at the other end of the row, regarding him quizzically. 

“Who are you?” The guy said. He was probably some producer or something. Dennis didn’t really care, but he also didn’t want to get kicked out, out of the theater, back to his apartment and Mac and Frank and Charlie and  _ reality.  _

“Her...br- boyfriend,” He lied, unsure why he’d thought to call himself her  _ brother.  _ Something about Dee really did remind Dennis of his long-gone sister, though from what he remembered, Deandra had been a lot more annoying. “Here for emotional support. It’s her first audition.” 

The guy still looked a bit confused, but fuck him. Dennis looked back to the stage. Dee handed in some papers. She tapped her shoe, waited for the cue, and then gave a smile.

She pulled a rifle out of the bag, and dropped onto a chair, leaning on the barrel that she clutched near her chest. 

“I haven’t a real passport. I don’t know how old I am, and I think I’m young.” Dennis watched as Dee’s expression fell, the way she drew into herself, insecure in a way he hadn’t seen her be.

“When I was a little girl, my father and mother used to go ‘round fairs and give performances, and I used to do the salto mortale and various little tricks.” She dragged her nails over the gun, letting her hands fall to her knees, clutching at the fabric of her dress.

“And when papa and mama died a German lady took me to her and began to teach me. I liked it. I grew up and became a governess.” Dee’s gaze wandered off stage, and she made eye contact with Dennis for a second. She swallowed, and when she talked again her voice was quieter. “And where I came from and who I am, I don't know....” She looked off to the side, and Dennis might be imagining things, but she looked genuinely... _ sad.  _

He wondered, vaguely, who’d hurt her. “Who my parents were—perhaps they weren't married—I don't know. I don't know anything.” Dee stood up, hitching the rifle up and grasping in with two hands. She looks down sadly, contemplating.

“I do want to talk, but I haven't anybody to talk to... I haven't anybody at all.” 

Dee stayed silent on the stage for another few seconds. Then, with practiced ease, her shoulders dropped, and a small smile came to her face, completely at odds with the character she’d been playing not a minute ago. Dennis couldn’t see what expression was on the director’s face, but it must’ve been good, because Dee’s smile hadn’t diminished by a watt. She walked off the stage practically skipping, and Dennis was dumbfounded. 

Her acting  _ wasn’t  _ mindblowing. Lethal Weapon was definitely better. But…

“How did you do that?” Dennis asked her when she’d shrugged off the producers and gotten to the back of the stage. 

She turned to him quizzically. 

“Do what?” 

Dennis threw a hand in the direction of the stage. “Y’know. That.” 

“Act?” She pulled on her purse, fiddling with the straps. “Well, I.” She sucked on her lip, looking over him as if trying to gauge his reaction. “I had a lot of time as a kid.” 

Dennis waited. He’d learned that people will talk if you just leave them silence to fill. 

They came to the door. Dennis had to stop for a second to let his eyes adjust to the sunlight. There was a scattering of snow on the ground, big fluffy flakes tumbling from the sky onto the lampposts.

When he looks at Dee, she’s still chewing on her lip, glancing at the ground. 

“When I was a kid, I used to wish I was someone else. That...that my family was richer, that I had a sibling...that was popular. Y’know, kid stuff. I’d pretend to be that girl - not Dee, but  _ Deandra,  _ \- rich and snotty with a million friends. It got boring when I realized it was never gonna come true,” She shrugged, eyes still averted. “But by then I was really into it- so I’d practice roles from plays, steal scripts from the library, that type of stuff. Tried to get into the drama club, but they didn’t really want me there.” 

Not many people wanted aluminum braced monsters in their club, Dennis supposed. “Nerds suck,” He said, not really knowing why. 

She nodded, smiling a bit. “Yeah.” 

He wanted to ask her,  _ why are you telling me this?  _ Which was ridiculous, he was Dennis Reynolds, of course, she should tell him whatever he wanted to know. But most people weren’t stupid enough to pour our their dreams like that on first meeting. 

Then again, Dennis  _ had  _ crashed her rehearsal, so maybe she felt closer to him because of that. Again, stupid of her. 

“So, do you like, not have any friends?” 

She jerked out of her reverie, frowning as she turned to look at him. “What?” 

“Well, I’m the only person who’ll come to your rehearsal, and you don’t exactly look like Ms. Popular.”

Her posture snaps back defensively, and she rolls her eyes. "First off, it's an audition, not a rehearsal, and secondly, you shouldn’t be one to talk."

Dennis eyed her. "What do you mean by  _ that? _ ”

“Yesterday you told me you had two friends. Both of whom participated in burning down your bar.” There’s a smirk at the edge of her lips, like she’s about to  _ laugh  _ at him, this absolute  _ hag- _

“Shut up, you fucking bitch!” He spits out, turning on her. “You have no right to say that shit about my friends, about me, you don’t know jack shit!  _ I  _ went to university,  _ I  _ got my fucking degree,  _ I- _ ”

“-Am currently shouting about my life problems to someone you barely know for making an offhand joke.” Dee crosses her arms, looking unimpressed. Dennis almost flinches. 

Most people leave after he does that. Most girls- most  _ people -  _ get frightened, run off, but Dee just stands there, looking expectant, like she’s waiting for him to pick his shit off the sidewalk and get it together. 

No one’s ever looked at him like that. 

“Yelling won’t fix your problems, asshole. You want revenge? Go yell out your friends, not me.” Her lips are pursed, her jaw set, spine straight. She grabs something out of her purse, turning away so he can’t see what she’s doing. 

Spinning on her heel, she faces him. His fingers dig into the brick of the old house he’s leaned against. She grabs the collar of his shirt, leans in close, and tells him: “Maybe you’d have more friends if you weren’t such a dick,” And for a second he doesn’t process it, because there are snowflakes caught in her lashes and Dennis has never really liked snowflakes (cold, wet,  _ ugh _ ) but on Dee’s eyelashes they almost look  _ nice _ , what the fuck-

He comes to, smiling condescendingly. “You don’t know jack shit about me, princess.” 

She returns the expression. 

“And neither do you. Sunshine.” She said the last word a tad too late, and Dennis couldn’t keep himself from laughing. 

“You’re so  _ strange, _ ” He said, which was weird because he meant to say  _ stupid,  _ but whatever. 

Dee looks at him, and shakes her head. 

“Speak for yourself. I’d say I’m the normal one here.” She rolls her eyes, but Dennis can  _ see  _ she’s almost laughing, he’d just need to pull a  _ bit  _ harder and she’d be tripping over herself for him, like she  _ should _ -

“Bye, loser.” She turns and walks away, waving at him over her shoulder. “I got places to be!” 

Dennis stares, dumbfounded, and watches her leave. 

What the  _ fuck?  _ Girls don’t just leave him like that- he’s - he’s a fucking  _ god,  _ that bitch should be overjoyed at his mere presence, why would she  _ leave-  _

He touched a hand to the pocket of his jacket where she’d grabbed him, trying to find his phone. When he pulled his hand out, there was a scrap of paper with ten numbers, and sloppy handwriting. 

_ Don’t Call Me.  _

Dennis  _ didn’t  _ grin. 

*

Finding his way home was a challenge, seeing as yesterday he’d gone out of his way to find a bar that was as far from Paddy’s (rest in peace) as possible. Eventually, though, he stumbled into his apartment, flipping on the lights only to find-

“Hey, Dennis,” Charlie.

“Dennis!” Mac. 

“D-ennis.” and Frank. 

“What do you assholes  _ want? _ ” He snarled. Charlie and Mac seemed undeterred, and Frank was clutching a bottle so lifelessly Dennis was pretty sure he’d lost the ability to process reality. 

Charlie leaned forwards, taking a swig from one of Dennis’ 130$ bottles of Rémy Martin. “Did you get the insurance?” 

“No, I didn’t get the fucking insurance, because we don’t own the fucking building!” Dennis says, snatching the bottle from Charlie’s hand. He leaves his shoes on (god knows what filth Charlie and Frank tracked in), grabs a glass, and pours himself half the bottle. 

Mac looks puzzled. “Whaddya mean, dude? Of course we own the bar! There’s like, our name on the title and shit!  _ Mac and Dennis’ pub? _ Ring a bell?” He said, miming hitting a gong. 

“Mac. That was one of our proposed name changes  _ three years ago. _ ”

“Yeah, but it got the point!” 

“I just- Never mind,” Dennis said, pressing a hand to his forehead and reaching for the Rémy Martin. “The point is, we don’t have insurance, so we burnt down the bar for nothing.” 

“Aw- dude - dude- no,  _ no. _ ” Charlie says. 

Dennis takes a glug of his alcohol. 

“Yes, Charlie,  _ yes.  _ So now we’ve got no bar, no business, no insurance, and shithead over there-” He jabs a thumb at Frank “-Refused to pay our tab, after the Keanu Reeves incident.” 

Silence. They don’t talk about the Keanu Reeves incident. 

“So...how are we supposed to pay back the commie mafia  _ now _ ?” Mac says, throwing his hands up in the air. “I mean, the ecstasy was good but... I think it was expensive.”

Silence. 

Dennis passes him the bottle. He thinks of Dee, working tables until three and acting whenever she had a spare moment. 

“How much is our tab, again?” 

Mac bites his lip. “...23, 000 dollars.” 

“Guys,” Dennis says, and immediately hates himself for it. 

“I think we might have to get jobs.” 

That’s when the shouting starts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Charlotta's Monologue](https://www.backstage.com/monologues/anton-chekhov/the-cherry-orchard/864/) from [The Cherry Orchard](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cherry_Orchard).


End file.
